


Hello, My Old Heart

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Boys In Love, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: There’s a man there, standing with his arms folded over his chest. White hair catches a beam of sunlight that reaches into the cloister. “Geralt!” The word leaves him like a breath. When the Witcher turns, a brilliant smile breaks over Jaskier’s face. “What in the names of the gods are you doing here?”The Witcher lifts a shoulder. “I was passing through,” he offers simply.---Inspired by daryshkart's Older Jaskier art on tumblr
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 974
Collections: Fae's Favourite Witcher Works





	Hello, My Old Heart

“Professor! Professor!”

Reading by candle and hearth light will be the death of his eyes. He knows as much. He’s been told as much, by other scholars and healers. But does it stop him from pouring over one of the many leather-bound tomes within the great library; one with small, fading text and wrinkled pages? Absolutely not. Years have wisped by and he swears that he hasn’t even so much as made a dent in the library’s shelves, despite having read his own grand share of the books.

Jaskier doesn’t take his eye off of the page. Students come looking for him often enough these days, with their exams looming on the horizons. But this voice he knows well: the slight crack over certain words and the overall nasal sound of it is just too familiar. “Yes?” he replies, flicking over to the next page.

A man suddenly appears at the corner of his eye, heaving for breath. “Professor, there is someone in the foyer for you.”

“Show them to my office,” he says, running a fingertip along each line on the page, keeping his place. “I’ll be with them in a moment.”

The man leans back slightly, fitting his hands on to his hips. “Well, that’s the thing, Professor, I told him as such, that you would meet with him when you were ready, but-”

At that, Jaskier lifts his eyes. The man is one of the tutors, brow-beaten from years of hammering knowledge into young minds. He’s a mouse-like man, with a twitching face. When Jaskier looks him in the eye, his hands fall to clasp in front of him. “He went to the western cloister, Professor. I sent Torick after him, but the man brushed him off like he wasn’t even there. A brute of a man if ever I saw one.”

A small frown creases along Jaskier’s brow, one only highlighted by the soft light from the hearth beside him. He looks down at his book. Truth be told, he can’t remember what he just read. He nods, setting a mark between the pages and setting the book on to a nearby table. “I’ll see to it, Kevan,” Jaskier says, gathering his jacket from the back of the armchair and tugging it on.

Kevan follows him out of the room. “Would you like me to call the city guards, professor?”

Jaskier offers a small, dismissing smile. “No, no need for all of that. Go and help professor Tallo with her reports, would you?”

There are four main cloisters within the Academy’s walls, each facing in a cardinal direction. Each has a garden populated and pruned with different flowers and foliage. The western holds plants normally native to one of the western kingdoms. Buds of roses and daffodils start to peek out of their bulbs, reaching for the new spring light reaching in. A few students sit on the wall of the cloister, shielded by the sun underneath one of the decorated arches that run all throughout the area. Even though he pays them no mind, he can feel them peering up from their books to watch him aimlessly wander down the short sandstone paths that interlink in the middle of the cloister. When he glances over, they quickly gather their books and scramble from the area.

There’s a man there, standing with his arms folded over his chest. White hair catches a beam of sunlight that reaches into the cloister. “Geralt!” The word leaves him like a breath. When the Witcher turns, a brilliant smile breaks over Jaskier’s face. “What in the names of the gods are you doing here?”

The Witcher lifts a shoulder. “I was passing through,” he offers simply. He’s forgone any armour, instead clad in a loose black shirt and breeches. He looks good, Jaskier notices as he gets closer. As good as he left him all those summers ago to return to Oxenfurt.

Amber eyes lift to the crown of his head. A flash of something brief blinks over Geralt’s face. “You’ve gotten grey,” he says simply.

Jaskier laughs, waving a hand. “Nothing some dye won’t fix,” he smiles. “I assure you, I don’t feel what I must look.” Yet it’s still an odd thing: seeing time change things about his body, while Geralt still looks the same as he’s always done. It could be his eyes starting to strain, but if he looks close enough, he can see the faint lines around the corners of the Witcher’s eyes and mouth, casting small shadows as they’re caught by the light.

But maybe his own mind is trying to convince himself that while time can do whatever it likes to someone like him, it must surely also come for someone like Geralt.

What he doesn’t expect though, is for Geralt to turn to him completely, taking a few strides towards him. His eyes are still fixed on the top of his head. They trail down towards his jaw. A beard grown out in the past couple of years that sports far more grey than the hair on his head. “Don’t,” Geralt says softly. “I like it.”

“I’ll start looking like you soon,” Jaskier smirks, eyes darting to Geralt’s hair. It’s tied back as it always is, although the sides have been shorn slightly. He’s sure it didn’t look like this the last time Geralt visited – so begged the question of _who_ managed to convince the Witcher to cut his hair.

Jaskier has a slight inkling. “How’s Ciri?”

“She’s good,” Geralt answers. “Strong, stubborn.”

A light laugh leaves Jaskier. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Quick math that Jaskier pulls together would put her at the start of womanhood. If she were to be standing here in front of him, he doesn’t think he would be able to recognise her. He remembers the girl at all stages of her life – from the apple-cheeked girl who used to try and convince him to stay in Cintra, to the teenager who learned how to brandish and swing a sword.

But she didn’t come with Geralt the last time the Witcher visited. _She’s started taking contracts of her own_ , he had told Jaskier with a ghost of a smile shadowing his lips. _She’s on the other side of the Continent._ And, gods above, Jaskier remembers how tightly strung the Witcher held himself. Constantly fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, or glancing towards the sky as if looking at the same stretch of horizon would summon Ciri from wherever it was she was then.

Heavy bells toll from the towers, announcing the turn of the hour. Geralt glances up at the nearest one, noting the time. Jaskier’s fingers fidget by his side. “Will you be staying long?” he asks slightly tentatively. It’s a redundant question. Geralt can stay as long as he wants. No one from the college’s consul has ever come to stop him before. Other professors have guests visiting and staying all throughout the year. Some of them never leave, taking up a permanent residency within the college’s halls.

Geralt hums. “I could,” he says, “if you wanted me to.”

“I always want you to,” Jaskier says softly, glancing over towards the arches of the cloister. With the last of the classes called for the day, the gardens and halls will be empty. Jaskier pockets one of his hands in his doublet, and reaches for Geralt with his other. “Come. I haven’t seen you in an age. Tell me of everything that has happened.”

When Geralt’s hand slides into his, when their fingers fit and interlink with each other’s, warmth tingles up through his arm. It’s like Geralt never even left. They move to a more shaded corner of the cloister, where one of the gardeners had a wooden shelter be made. The wooden beams are intertwined with rose vines and the first buds of blossoms. Fallen petals litter the cushioned bench underneath the veranda. Jaskier wisps them away with a flick of his hand and seats them both.

Geralt tells him of all that has happened in the time they were apart; of the contracts taken and the monsters slain. Jaskier’s fingers twitch, vying for that leather-bound notebook he once had to help create ballad after ballad. But those years are behind him now. His songs have been written and performed and cast out into the Continent for others to sing. He’s thought about picking up a lute again for Ciri – the woman would have tales of her own

But academics is far too demanding for the life he once led. And all the lute-playing he does now is for those chillier nights spent in the great hall, regaling the older professors and tutors with songs that they heard all those years ago.

“My last job was just a league south of here, a selkie-girl and her mate,” Geralt says, leaning back against the cushioned seat. It’s a nice grove, still looking out on to the flowers, but with enough privacy for them to speak plainly. Jaskier lifts his chin. “Her mate had hidden her coat,” Geralt explains. Something flashes across his face. “He was just like all the other mates – acting on a distorted sea-tale. It’s more common than you think, having a selkie’s coat hidden away; having them bound to their mate until they die.”

Jaskier makes a sound in the back of his throat. His thumb grazes the ridges of Geralt’s knuckles. “Did you find it for her?”

Geralt nods. “It was buried out in the woods near their house. She needed it to return to the sea. She promised him that she would be back when she felt better.”

“Poor thing,” Jaskier hums. He’s never encountered a selkie. But from what he’s read of them, he can’t imagine they would be the _monsters_ Geralt or his brothers would be sent out to get rid of. They were one of the few creatures gladly welcomed into people’s lives, if anything. It’s just a shame that people heard bastardised versions of the selkie myth. Men with good intentions, wishing for their mates to stay with them on land, but not realising that a selkie needs the sea just like they need the air around them.

Geralt glances over to him, his eyes soft. “How has your time here been?”

Jaskier laughs lightly. “Droll and uneventful, I’m afraid.” It was a sharp change from the life he once led. But now that he’s trudging into the older years of his life, it’s a change he’s slowly welcoming. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt squeezes his hand, though. “But good. Everything is good.”

It doesn’t seem to convince the Witcher at all, but he leaves it; nodding and looking out on to the gardens. A tutor scuttles through the cloister, keeping their scrolls and tomes bundled in their arms. They’re gone as quickly as they appeared.

Jaskier pats the back of Geralt’s hand. “The kitchens will be serving dinner soon. I asked to have it brought to my room. I could ask them for another plate if you like? Or have you eaten already?”

“I’m not one to turn down the offer of food,” Geralt says with a slight smile.

When they stand from the veranda, Jaskier glances up at the sky. Streaks of orange start to stain the blue. When he looks back to Geralt, he blinks at finding the Witcher looking back at him. Their hands are still joined by their sides. “What?” Jaskier laughs. He can feel a slight warmth start to flush across his cheeks. It’s always there whenever Geralt looks at him in a certain way.

Geralt shakes his head. “Nothing. Just missed you, is all.” Geralt tugs him closer. Without thinking, Jaskier lifts his chin. He catches Geralt’s lips in his, briefly, but enough to send a thrum of heat shivering through his body.

Callused fingertips gentle along his jaw, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Jaskier’s arms coil around the Witcher, holding him close. His fingers coil and grip the linen of Geralt’s shirt, just _holding_. When he parts to breathe, a smile spreads over his face when Geralt sets their foreheads together. “I hope you’re planning on staying a while,” Jaskier mumbles, brushing their noses. “I don’t think I can part with you just yet.”

Geralt squeezes his hand. “I have nowhere else I would rather be, Jas. I’m all yours until you grow tired of me being here.”

Jaskier laughs. “Then you’ll be here until the end of your days, Witcher.”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [daryshkart's](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/612659849250078720/continuing-my-exploration-of-older-prof-jaskier) post on Tumblr. A very short snippet, but just enough fluff to mull us all over for another while x 
> 
> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) | agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated x
> 
> Stay Safe. Stay At Home. x


End file.
